The Promise of the Sea
by Ziams-Turtles
Summary: Liam, Zayn, Harry, Louis, Niall and Eleanor all take a trip to the underwater city of Rapture, where they will spend the rest of their lives. When their paths collide, and relationships form, can they survive the pressures of the Utopian society and its scientific advancements? A Ziam/Larry Stylinson AU Fanfic. M for language and adult themes.
1. Prologue

It was the year of 1946, and the world was struggling to carry on in its post-World War II state. Depression tugged at economies across the globe, devastating national debts that plummeted into irreversible depths of solitude. Wars and revolutions continuously broke out, and people began turning to anything they could. Political leaders. God. Buddha.

_Foolish_, thought Liam, as his foot pumped up and down against the hard ground outside the facility at which he worked. The site he attended in his occupation—and also the place at which he lived—was a small, condensed area off the coast of England. There was not much to see; nothing to distract from his work. There were large, white tents placed about the area, people constantly maneuvering in, out, and around them. There was one massive building made of glass and metal, with huge windows stretching up its walls. It contained the lab, where most of Liam's time was spent.

He blew puffs of smoke as he took drags of his cigarette, sighing as he gazed into the distance, running a hand through his hair. He kept to himself, a fair and prevalent space between fellow coworkers and so-called "friends". Liam chuckled to himself.

_Friends,_ he thought. _What a waste._

He tossed the butt of his fag on the ground and crushed it under his heel. He grinded it into the tightly packed dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust. He sighed again, deeper this time, exhaustion seeping into his features. He really had the potential to be handsome; if he ever smiled. He was fair-skinned, with thick, sandy hair that sat in wisps around his head, poking up at the edges. His eyes were a deep brown, and his physical features were above average: strong arms, a well-developed abdomen hidden beneath his lab coat.

It was early in the morning; no later than six o' clock AM, and already he was tired. The cool, impenetrable mist hung in the air around the encampment, obstructing his view of anything past its outskirts. He was developing new techniques on the use of stem-cells in Solway, but his work was not what tired him so quickly. Rather, it was the never ending string of questions thrown at him by his underlings. What does this mean? How is it helpful? Is this even significant?

Each time he explained the answers to them; tried the best he could to distill some intelligence within their rattled brains. They were all dimwits—in Liam's eyes—nothing but a bunch of incompetent, unruly, good-for-nothing idiots that tried to pass themselves off as scientists. There was one perk that came with the job, though; and really, it was the only one.

Liam James Payne, for once in his life, was looked up to. Punches weren't thrown against his face and feet didn't collide with his body. He was a respected member of society now. A scientific genius, they called him. At the age of twenty-three he had topped every well-known biologist in all of the United Kingdom, and by twenty-five, well; he was here. He was known as a miracle worker, and an asset to biological sciences. Some even went as far as comparing him to the almighty and widely worshipped "God" himself.

Liam hadn't liked that reference.

He had always been a man of science. A man of self-determination and self-worth, and he refused to allow anyone to pretend that his precocious acuity had been bestowed upon him by some nonexistent, divine being. But no one ever listened to him. Not unless whatever came out of his mouth was strictly related to his work.

It irritated him. It genuinely aggravated him until eventually, he exploded in a flurry of rage, stomping around his lab and yelling at the imbeciles he had the very pleasure of associating with on a daily basis. That was the only time they shut their fat mouths. The only time they were ever silent. The only time Liam was left alone.

He liked being isolated. Enjoyed the peace and quiet, where his thoughts were confined to his own mind, and his emotions went unseen. He worked more efficiently, thought more critically, and felt more at peace.

He sat on the cheap, wooden bench for hours, the bags under his eyes sagging deeper with every passing minute, the solemn, gray stratus clouds low overhead.

_Stratus clouds_, Liam thought. _When did I learn about those?_

He closed his eyes, memories drifting to his time in his sixth year of schooling. His teacher, Mrs. Canterburry, was standing at the front of the classroom, carrying on monotonously about the water cycle. It was repetitious and, quite frankly, boring, considering they had gone over it five times already. Liam fast forwarded the lesson ten minutes in the future, where Mrs. Canterburry finally introduced new information. He had soaked it all in (as he always did), and stratus clouds were particularly interesting to him because they looked like blankets. He liked them, even as a young child, because they kept the sun away, and it gave him an excuse to stay inside.

Those were the days. A smile, a very rare and extremely unusual thing, crept across Liam's face as he basked in his own shroud of reminiscence. He kicked out his legs, resting one over the other as he pulled another cigarette from his coat pocket. He reached for his lighter, struck a flame, and leaned back. He took a long drag, allowing the near unheard of moment of calm sink to his heart.

How long had it been since he had some time to himself? Weeks, at least. Weeks of painful words that jabbed at his brain and threatened to push him to the limits of insanity. He had made the decision months ago that he needed to escape this prison he was in. He was never allowed to leave; a guard constantly stood watch over the gate, monitoring who left, and who entered. Why had he signed the contract? What had led him to make such a poor decision?

"You'll be working with the top scientists in the field," they had told him.

"Finally someone will be able to keep up with you," they had told him.

Well they had lied. The stupid, moronic bastards had convinced him to throw away his entire life, his entire career. He knew there was nothing here for him; nothing meaningful he would ever discover. Suddenly, rage overcame him, and he slammed his fist against the seat of the bench.

Heat pulsed through his veins and he was seething in anger.

That was about all he felt these days: animosity and annoyance.

Zayn stood, wine glass in hand as he paced in front of his office desk. The bulky, crude thing reached high above the carpeted floors of his workspace. It was cluttered with opened files and partially torn papers. Pens and pencils were strewn across its top randomly, some out of ink, others leaking across his documents. There were scuffs and cracks in the wood, from the many times he had kicked it, punched it, or thrown it over altogether.

In the back of the room lay two windows, blinds cracked, overlooking the city of Bradford. There was a bookshelf placed up against the left wall, random pieces of literature stacked high. There was a single, plastic tree that sat in the corner next to the doorway. Zayn often stared at it, as it reminded him of his childhood and the constant trips he would take to Hollywood, over in the States.

Ever since he saw the well-dressed men, with their suits and top-hats, he knew that money would be his salvation. At the age of ten he began plotting his monopolization of the business industry, and by twenty-six, his dream had become a reality.

Zayn was a true businessman. He was conniving and manipulative, keen and sharp. And of course, he looked the part.

His hair never went a day without being styled into its usual jet-black quiff. His eyelashes were long, his eyes a deep hazel that attracted any consumer, no matter the gender. His smiles were cunning, his pearly white teeth contrasting with his olive skin. His silky smooth, satin suit was buttoned to the top, his tie peeking out with a tuft of his undershirt. His slacks hugged his legs, and his polished Brogues shone in the dim light.

He sipped from his glass, the burning liquid singing his tongue as it traveled down his throat. He really hated the taste of wine; he even disliked the smell. It was repulsive to him.

But today—tonight—he needed to drink. He needed his thoughts clouded under the influence of alcohol, needed to slip away from his hectic life. He was constantly dealing with superficial, pretentious clients who thought they could take advantage of him. But not Zayn Malik. Not the owner of the one of the most popular and prominent businesses in all of England.

He still paced the room quietly, save for the sound of his footwear clicking against the floor. He took another swig of his wine, this time finishing off the glass.

It was his fourth, and he was beginning to feel tipsy.

He took a seat in the comforting chair behind his jumbled desk. He inhaled a deep breath as he placed his hands on the edge of the hard wood. They moved in circles across the rough surface, and he simply stared at the door at the opposite end of the room.

And then he chuckled. It began as a laugh deep inside him, and then echoed throughout the room, low and rugged. It bounced off the walls and came back to his mind. Back and back it came, disorienting and engulfing him in the pitiful reality he called life.

His head fell to the desk, lying sideways as he drifted off into sleep, the light flickering.

He really needed a new office.

Zayn awoke to a knocking on his door, and a pounding in his skull. It throbbed painfully, the pressure spiking as his eyes trailed to the light that pilfered in through his half-closed shutters. The knock sounded again, ringing through his brain.

"Come in…" he called softly, not much louder than a whisper.

The door scraped as it pushed along the tattered carpet, Zayn raising his hands to the sides of his head, massaging his temples.

"Judith," he said, speaking to his ready-abled assistant in the doorway. "Get me some tea…"

"Long night, sir?" she asked.

"Tea." He demanded.

She strutted down the hall, pumps sinking into the padding in the process. Why had she worn Peep Toes to work? But more importantly, why was the building of one of the richest men in Europe so beaten and so old?

Sappy, viscous thoughts trickled into Zayn's mind, slowly, breaking the clouded outline of his hangover. Remembrance collected in his head and flashbacks surged through his nerves.

**Two Weeks Earlier**

Cigars beclouded the air in a hazy veil, filling the cramped room with the smoke of their burning tobacco. Men sat at the circular table, cards in hand, poker chips scattered over its surface. They were loud as they joked and taunted one another, shouts of "bastard" and "cheat" echoing throughout the room. They were all drunk; Zayn included.

The group had gathered for a night of cards and drinking in attempts to escape the pressures of society. A record of _I Cover the Waterfront by Connie Boswell_ played in the background, washed out by the conversations of the supposed "gentlemen".

He sat between two of the seven men that stretched round the near-ancient piece of furniture. The man to his left was a thin and shady guy by the name of Donald. Zayn didn't know him too well, and judged that by his features he was nothing more than a gambler who took risks he could not afford to lose.

To his right was a friend of his who went by Harry, though his birth name had been Harold, before he changed it. Zayn still called him that, sometimes, forgetting his old friend's irritation towards the title.

Harry was larger than Donald, average height with chiseled features. His hair was a dark shade of brown, slicked back with Murray's Pomade, a black fedora sitting atop it. He held a smug smile on his face as he slapped his cards against the table, sweeping the poker chips to his end with his arm. Hoots and hollers erupted from his mouth, accompanied by swears and a babbled string of incoherent words.

Zayn stared blankly at the emptiness in front of him.

Wood. Nothing but shabby, unkempt wood stared back at him. No chips, no money.

He had lost it all.

"Sir!" Judith shouted, slamming the cup of tea in front of Zayn. His eyes focused as he was pulled back into reality.

"Right," he said quickly, "Thank you."

"Is everything all right, sir?" she asked.

"Everything is fine," he lied.

She left the room, sauntering along with a concerned look on her face.

"Shut the door," Zayn ordered.

She turned to him, eyes filled with worry as she closed the door. He waited, listening to her footsteps as she took off down the hall before he swung his foot into the side of his desk; leg trembling, mind pulsating in agony at the loud noise.

Zayn buried his face in his hands, and for the first time in years, wept.

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	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Liam stared out across the ocean, the sun now rising, the evanescent fog fading away. The bench sat overlooking the waters, and blue stretched as far as the naked eye could see. He could smell salt as he watched the waves lap up against the jagged rocks.

The sound of speeding car wheels echoed through the entirety of the encampment, making Liam jump in his seat. His neck turned and his head pivoted, eyes tracing the trail of dust left by the 1940 Plymouth that dragged along the dirt road. It was a dark teal color, two passengers locked within. It skidded to a halt after being let through the gate, and the men stepped out, stretching their limbs.

One of them was tall and sturdy, dressed in a black suit and tie. His blonde hair flowed to the side in the wind, and his muscles rippled, protruding outwards from underneath his clothing. He was pale, his cheeks were flushed, and his stark blue eyes peered at Liam, squinting, before his hand outstretched and a finger pointed.

The second man glanced in Liam's direction before nodding and hobbling towards him. He was tanned, with an oval face and dark, neatly combed hair that was graying at the fringes. He was wearing a brown, three-piece, formal outfit, complete with a striped tie that encircled his neck and fell across his torso. He too had blue eyes, though they were not nearly as electrifying.

Liam sighed inwardly at the quaint men heading his way. He was not in the mood to deal with anyone; especially complete strangers.

"Ho there!" the dark-haired man called. He had his hands cupped around his mouth, attempting to make his voice carry farther. Liam only blinked twice before turning his gaze back to the ocean.

By the time the mysterious pair had reached him, the older and shorter man was heaving and gasping for air. His blonde counterpart stood, arms crossed, silent.

"Mind if I have a seat?" he asked.

"Yes." Liam replied.

"Let's go for a walk then?"

"No," Liam answered.

"Not too friendly are we?" the man pried, sitting down anyways. "I'm Andrew. Andrew Ryan." He held out his arm, ready to shake.

"Liam Payne," he said, glancing down at the wavering hand before turning away, refusing to accept the embrace.

"Good thing I'm not offended easily," Andrew laughed. He crossed one leg over the other as he pulled a packet of smokes from his coat pocket. "Niall," he said, motioning to the fag he held.

The blonde man pulled a lighter, struck a flame and set it to the end of his cigarette. Andrew set it between two fingers as he blew the cloud of smoke high in the air.

"Why is it a good thing you're not offended easily?" Liam asked.

"Boy, you're as cold as they come, _that's_ why," he said, cocking his head to the side.

"I'm not a boy," Liam snapped. Andrew only chuckled.

The two sat there, with Niall standing beside them, for a long while. The silence was deep, none of the men willing or wanting to break it. The sun was high above the sea now, and Liam had gotten no work done all day. Andrew went through nearly his entire package of cigarettes, each time motioning for the blonde man to light it for him. It upset Liam that Mr. Ryan was so seemingly dependent upon his…what was Niall to him?

A friend? A servant? An escort?

"What is he to you?" Liam asked.

Andrew was completely thrown off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"What is Niall to you?"

"Niall is my body guard," he stated plainly. He was still surprised, though; tinges of interrogation bled through his words, tone deceiving him.

"What need do you have for a bodyguard?" Liam questioned.

"Ah, and now the fun begins!" Mr. Ryan exclaimed, arms open to the ocean. "You see Liam—" he began.

"Get to the point—"

"I was going—"

"Get to the point," Liam demanded once more.

Andrew laughed. "You're a funny one, you know that?"

Liam only stared back at him, eyes full of impatience.

"Right, well then. I've been working on this…project of mine, if you will, for a long time. You may have heard rumors, you may have not. But the reality is that underneath the Atlantic Ocean, at the very bottom of the sea" he stuck a finger out towards the expanse of water, "lays a city of untold greatness. A city built for those willing to break the barriers of society and reach for something more. To grasp what is beyond the limitations of the surface world. In Rapture—that is its name—you can be free of religion…free of social classes and pressures…free of political instability. For in Rapture, there is only man that rules; and man alone."

His eyes were serious, ambition taking control of his features and exuding a life within him that went, Liam guessed, unseen to most.

"Tell me more," Liam begged, suppressing his excitement.

"Ah, yes, of course, Liam. I have not even reached the best part. On top of the railways… the bathyspheres…the beautiful landscapes of the ocean, lay an opportunity that has been forever unknown to the human race." He set his arm on the back of the bench, elbow bent. "There are no foolish laws to bind you from progressing in your work. Science and technology will thrive without the limitations that are placed so heavily upon them on the surface world; they will become unstoppable!"

"See...I chose the impossible. I chose...Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well."

"Yes," Liam whispered, mind filled with anticipation and a longing he never knew existed.

And he was hooked. Instantly, irrevocably, and indubitably drawn in to the boundless extraordinaire that was Rapture. His hands trembled as realization was burned into his skull.

_No scientific boundaries, he thought. Nothing to hold me back ever again._

_ Unconstrained, with endless possibility._

Liam liked that idea.

* * *

Eleanor Calder was a reserved and introverted woman with a shy and bashful personality. Her hair was long and brown, parting at the middle of her bangs, forming a halo around her thin face. Her eyes were deep and loving, and she had a small, petite frame. She wore a silky smooth, lavender night gown that was draped around her, falling back against her body as she lay on the couch, awaiting the return of her husband in the ambient laconism that surrounded her.

Their apartment—that her spouse and she shared, of course—was a large, three bedroom, one bath living space complete with a balcony overlooking the city of Doncaster. Often times Eleanor stared out the window of her bedroom, observing the wind that blew in the trees when she grew lonely. Her husband was a lawyer, and always seemed to be caught up by God-knows-what at work.

"Always alone…" she said to herself, words ricocheting in the silence.

A click of the door sounded, Eleanor turning her gaze from the ceiling to the entrance, eyeing the man that stepped in.

His shoulders sagged in his suit, which glistened in the living room lighting. It was a rich and vivid navy blue, with black vertical stripes chasing down his back. He held a wide, leather briefcase, a few tips of the documents contained within poking out at the edges. He kicked off his Oxfords, stretching his toes out on the hardwood floor. He spun to his wife, a sullen expression on his face.

His hair was knotted and tangled, its delicate strands causing him pain whenever his hands carded through it. His eyes were not the usual energized blue that melted the hearts of the captive jury he faced in court. He appeared dead as he staggered to his wife across the room from him, enervated as his exhausted muscles propelled him forward. She motioned for him to sit down, and he rested his head against her breast.

"Tired, Lou?" she asked, massaging the sore muscles in his neck.

"Yes…" he breathed, quickly nodding off into sleep, falling limp against his wife. She leaned back, lightly dragging his body with her as she rested against the soft cushioning of the couch, curling by his side.

"Me too," she said. "Me, too…"

Rays of light rippled across the floorboards of Eleanor's flat, moving in currents and dancing across the polished surface. She stared at it for a long while, unmoving from her place on the couch.

During this time thoughts of foreboding and tugging apprehension raced through her mind. Her worry of their new "family", their new home, their new life. It was all so strange and so different, and it was nothing Eleanor was accustomed to.

But then again, no one was accustomed to an eternity under the sea.

Eleanor slipped off of the furniture quietly, and began to prepare breakfast. She had a long day ahead of her.

"Sweetheart, it will be grand, the whole thing will be brilliant!" he exclaimed, jumping out of his seat at the kitchen table.

"Louis, sit down and eat. I didn't cook for all this food to go to waste…"she sighed, knowing he would not listen to her.

"El, darling," he said, rounding the table and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Aren't you excited?" She stabbed a piece of scrambled egg with her fork and slid it into her mouth. She nodded, still chewing the morsel of food.

Louis returned to his seat, dissatisfied with his spouse's reaction.

"You don't _look_ too happy," he spat, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of orange juice. "I don't know why you're not delighted to be moving down there," he continued. "Anyone would kill for that chance. Do you understand that? Do you understand how lucky we are?" his tone pitied her and poked at her in crude contempt.

"Yes, dear," Eleanor replied, lamentation striking her words. "I am happy—excited. I'm just…a bit worried." Her tone was unconvincing, Louis not falling for the act.

"What are you worried about?" he asked skeptically.

"Life will be so…" she had to be careful with her words. "Different. It will be a big change," she said, head held downwards, facing the table.

"Change is good, Eleanor," Louis answered, sternly.

She nodded in agreement and, as usual, submitted to her more dominant partner.

* * *

The evening air was thick with enthusiasm and commotion as people piled into a single gold and polished bathysphere, assuming their descent to the great depths below. Zayn glanced around him, clutching his suitcase tightly. His knuckles were white—an odd thing against his dark skin—Harry standing by his side. The bathysphere went up and down, up and down…

The room in which they stood was packed tightly from wall to wall, the clusters and mobs of people touching shoulder to shoulder. They were all in the not-so-large space in some tower in the middle of…well, nobody quite knew.

The bathysphere housed about fifteen to twenty people at a time, depending on their size. It was a painstakingly slow process, watching it disappear and glide up again and again; Zayn waited a long time to reach the spot at which he stood now. He was no farther than ten feet away.

And he was no less than terrified.

His mind raced with thoughts of error and cruel chance. What if something went wrong? What if there was a malfunction and Zayn's life was quickly ended—due to his own stupidity and ignorance?

"Calm down, buddy…" Harry nudged him, sending him a reassuring smile. His leafy green, emerald eyes shone even in the poor lighting of the damp and putrid tower. His best mate's hair had been ruined by the lingering and sultry air, rendering his pomade useless, and his thick curls were jostled and sticking out in every direction.

"Aren't you nervous?" Zayn asked him, trying desperately not to feel alone.

"Hell, yes," Harry replied. It was the first time Zayn noticed his friend's hand trembling as it gripped his encasing of personal belongings, the leather handle shaking in his grasp. As he inched closer and closer to the bulky, gargantuan sphere of transportation, his heart began to beat faster, and faster. Sweat soaked through his clothing and his hands struggled in holding his luggage, fingers slipping.

"Shit," he said, turning to Harry. "I'm sweating like a pig and this suit is brand new…"

"You'll live," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

"But what if we don't?"

"What?" Harry asked, a bit taken aback.

"What if something goes wrong, what if that- that thing explodes under the pressure or something? I mean, we'd never survive. No way in hell—"

"Quit your babbling." Zayn was interrupted by a man in front of him, standing tall and confident; arrogant, even. He inclined his head and glared at them as he spoke, eyeing Zayn with an audacity and disdain that pierced his soul. "If the bathysphere hasn't collapsed by now, then it won't when you get on it, either."

Zayn had his mouth agape, stretched and contorted in disbelief at the interjection.

"Mind your own business," Harry snapped.

"If you don't want your business to be heard," the man said with a nasty undertone, "then don't speak of it so loudly and in such a confined public area."

Zayn normally wouldn't act in such a manner; certainly not with the domineering and pompous ass that stood before him.

But he was at a loss for words. His mind continuously drew blanks in attempts to dig for some retort, some reply. Anything.

For what he had seen—despite the utter and absolute look of disgust—was the most gorgeous human being he had ever laid his eyes on. Never had he looked at a man that way before; never in his life. It confused him, sending a trickling of self-hatred down his spine that shook his resolve. He battered himself within his own mind, fighting over what was right, and what was wrong.

If that had been a woman, then he would have charmed and sweet-talked her to bed with one sentence. One measly word and a snap of his fingers and she would be his, taking his every command and following his every word.

_But it wasn't a woman_, Zayn reminded himself. _That was a man, you dirty pervert._

But his thoughts could not leave the man's face. His flawless hair, jawline, eyes, lips, complexion. Everything about him enticed and pulled at Zayn's heart strings, luring him in as the smell of perfumes wafted and permeated through the air. He could see that the man's muscles in his back were tense, and he wanted nothing more than to massage the knots and stiff tissues.

He envisioned his deft hands gliding across the warm, silky skin, fingers spreading and contracting in skilled motions. He was now biting the other man's ear, whispering to him, rubbing him up and down; across his chest and his legs, his shoulders and his neck.

"Zayn," Harry said, shaking his arm. "Zayn, we're getting on, let's go." Harry stepped forward, shoes clanging against the metal of the bathysphere. It was lined with people that traced its circumference, the mysterious man included.

Zayn jumped in, losing his balance and reaching for the closest arm to him. With sour luck, it happened to be none other than the lad he was fantasizing about just moments before.

"Don't touch me," he said, jerking away, and dusting off his lab coat.

"What's your name?" Zayn asked, ignoring the reclusive and withdrawn man's wishes.

"Liam Payne," he stated, shooting a look of hostility.

"Zayn Malik," he replied, a hand outstretched.

"Don't touch me," Liam repeated.

Only this time, his words were softer, and less harsh. They hinted at compassion and yet strayed from benevolence, taunting and perplexed with convoluted complications that Zayn did not understand.

But as the motor kicked, and the bathysphere began to plummet into the sea below, Zayn became sure of one thing.

_Forget the fact that he's a man, _he thought to himself. _Liam Payne will be mine._

And Zayn always got what he wanted.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bubbles floated and passed through the waters, springing across the thick windows as the bathysphere plunged deeper and deeper into the ocean. Harry glanced about, captivated by the landscapes and scenery of the blue that engulfed him. It was like being swallowed up into an entire new world, and he was left gasping and sighing in awe at the tinges of color that dissipated throughout his mind. He absorbed each and every sight; from the reds and oranges of the coral, to the purples and grays of the various sea creatures he had never seen before.

To put it simply, Harry Styles was filled with an overflowing, superfluous joy that poured and exuded from his features, leaving a grin of flashing teeth in its wake. He smiled from ear to ear, looking like a fool with his ruffled hair and poorly ironed clothing. He tore his eyes away from the waters, and focused on the rest of the passengers contained within the spherical structure.

There was Zayn—standing next to the insolent man the two had encountered earlier—along with a burly blonde that operated and controlled the maneuvering of the bathysphere. There were men and women of a variety of ages; even a small child in the ocean craft. Harry's gaze trailed around the circle of people until his eye was eventually caught by a pair of wealthy-looking inhabitants.

That was Harry; always scoping out the rich members of society.

Although, this time, it wasn't necessarily the copious and evident amounts of money that nipped at his attention and plucked at his thoughts. Rather, it was the cascading hair and eyes full of energy of the man that drew him in. They locked stares intently and their gazes lingered for a moment, their eyes slowly and reluctantly pulling apart, neither of the two speaking a word.

It was quiet inside the bathysphere, except for the whirring of the motor, which was a constant reminder of the alarming truth and the unnerving reality.

Harry slid his back down the cool, rounded metal surface of the contraption, kicking out his legs and stretching his arms. He yawned, mouth opening wide as he received strange looks from all that were around him.

"Anyone care if I have a smoke?" he asked, breaking the grave and resonant silence.

Instead of being answered with a "yes" or a "no" Harry was given shakes of the head, indicating the indifference of his fellow sea-dwellers.

"A real talkative bunch, you lads are…" Harry said, chuckling to himself.

The smoke from his cigarette drafted up in wisps, folding and swirling in randomized patterns. Harry watched and traced its path as it drifted nearer and higher towards the ceiling. Upon reaching the top, it paused, spinning in a small circle before branching out, spreading in multiple directions at once. Its tendrils reached, diverging and diluting the compact, oxygenated compartment in which he sat.

His face grew serious and resolute, his eyes revealing the contemplative mechanisms that gyrated within his mind. His lips wicked around the butt of his fag as he inhaled the nicotine-coated gasses down his throat and into his lungs. He blew out the smoke, concentrating hard to create a thin, straight line of the hazy substance.

His control over the vapor broke as he coughed, the strand of fumes disintegrating into the air as they coiled into nothingness. Harry sighed at his failed attempts.

The descent to the city of Rapture was taking much longer than he expected, and his cheeky and upbeat personality was nowhere to be found. He snuck a glance at Zayn, who in turn, was examining the man next to him.

He had never seen his best mate survey anyone with such regard; such curiosity.

It was the way that men looked at _women_.

The way that Harry looked at the wealthy man.

He had heard of those occurrences before, in which a man and a man were…together. It was uncommon and near unheard of, and it confused him. He wasn't malevolent towards the subject, he just didn't understand it.

And yet at the same time, his stomach filled with a strange fluttering he had never felt before as he returned his attention to his cigarette. Once again he tried forming a line with the releasing fumes, and once again, he failed.

Harry moaned and was shaken as the underwater vehicle underwent turbulence from the changing pressures.

"Almost there," the blonde man said. And he was right.

A magnificent, eclectic combination of structures and sights came into view moments later. Buildings pierced the skies of the ocean floor and neon signs glowed, sending a rippled and distorted view of color inside the walls of the bathysphere. Octopi skittered past, stretching and kicking their tentacles, propelling themselves forward. The sphere glided through the waters, winding around the superstructures in a well-executed pathway.

The bathysphere steadied and headed for a series of cylindrical, semi-circular bands of metal that it latched on to as it dragged along, headed towards an opening. Each band it passed lit up, a message visible to all of the people aboard.

_ALL GOOD THINGS_

_ OF THIS EARTH_

_ FLOW_

_ INTO THE CITY_

The sphere unhooked itself, driving forward through a columnar passageway and into an octagonal shaft. It was dark and stony, the small light of the machinery sending a faint glow across the walls.

It darted upwards, engulfing the contraption in darkness as it ascended.

* * *

Harry glanced around at his tablemates, laughing as he lit a smoke.

"To think we'd all end up at dinner together…" he chuckled. A piano played in the background, accompanied by several other jazz instruments and a melodic female voice.

All of the citizens of Rapture had arrived now, eyes wide with euphoria, brains still feverish in trepidation. After listening to the invigorating, motivating and inspirational speech given by Mr. Ryan in Apollo Square—of which Harry had ignored—everyone was given a number each. That amenity, which was written on a crinkled, soiled piece of standard paper, had corresponded with a table number in one of the many dining places scattered about Rapture.

Harry's had been for the Kashmir Restaurant.

The Kashmir was a high-class, luxury establishment that served the finest cuisine in the entire city. The table at which he sat was large and rounded, made of smooth, hard wood. Upon it lay various folded, velvet colored napkins along with ivory silverware. The plates had an edging of gold that swerved and pivoted in elaborate, distinguished patterns and the cutlery was embellished with Victorian motifs.

"Well, since we're all here," Harry began, "Might as well introduce ourselves. I'm Harry Styles." His voice was raspy and his words were slurred slightly.

"I'm Louis Tomlinson," a man said, "And this is my wife, Eleanor." He gestured to her with his free hand, and she nodded.

"Niall Horan."

"Zayn Malik."

There was a long pause, drowned out by the boisterous conversations of the people around them as the five strangers exchanged glances of welcoming.

And once again, Harry's eyes lingered a bit too long with Louis'.

* * *

_She's a fool and don't I know it…_

The song played in the background, a hush falling over the customers of the Kashmir. Liam stepped into the lavish restaurant, receiving looks from all in the room. He was late—he knew that—but he didn't care.

He unfolded the tattered piece of paper and found the small number inscribed upon it.

_Table 27. The Kashmir._

Liam turned his head, in awe of the room. The main foyer was large, adorned with maroon carpet and massive, exquisite chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. In the center of the room was a large dessert plate, stacked high with cakes and other pastries that made his mouth water. There were two dining areas on the first floor; one to the left, the other to the right. Across from its center lie a twisting staircase which led to the second floor, complete with two balconies, and two more banquet areas. In the back of the foyer was a stage with a piano, a double-bass, and a dark-skinned woman with a microphone. She was singing the show tune _Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered_ from the popular musical _Pal Joey. _

Liam had never seen such an extravagant and formal establishment, and he certainly was not dressed for the occasion. His lab coat still draped over his shoulders and his slacks were laced with stains of sweat that absorbed into the fibers.

He showed one of the waiters his number, and was guided to his table. He followed closely behind the man, all the way up and around the spiral staircase to the second floor. Liam glanced out the windows on his way, gazing at the beautiful seabed of the ocean.

Reaching his area of dining, Liam sighed. He had hoped that he would spend his time alone this night, free to enjoy the relaxing dinner alone; it had been so long since he had some time to unwind. He settled down in the only open seat at the table, next to the one person he wished he would never have to see again.

"You again," Zayn said, noticing Liam for the first time. His words were not acidic, not venomous. They were friendly, welcoming.

"And you," Liam replied, lowering his wall of hostility only slightly. The words felt strange coming from his own mouth; unnatural. He was unaccustomed to acting amicable, and it was difficult to morph abhorrence and aggression into civility.

Difficult, but not impossible.

Zayn smiled and Liam returned it, a thing he had not done in years.

_What am I doing?_ He thought to himself. _I'm not here to make friends; to socialize. I'm here for science._

_ Biology._

_ No boundaries, Liam. You have one chance._

_ Do not screw it up._

"Everyone, it seems like there is another joining us tonight," Zayn spoke, catching the attention of his dinner mates. None of them had noticed Liam, for they were too immersed in the performance in the small theater-like area below.

"Great," Harry scoffed, scowling in Liam's direction.

"This is Louis Tomlinson," Zayn said, ignoring Harry's remark and introducing the transient set of companions. "His wife Eleanor," he continued, "Harry Styles, and Niall Horan."

"Niall," Liam said, recognizing the familiar face. "Shouldn't you be with Mr. Ryan?"

"Gave me the night off," he replied, smiling and clinking his wine glass with Harry, who sat next to him.

The six of them returned their minds back to the song.

_You give me your lips, and your lips are so heavenly…_

Frank Sinatra's _All this and Heaven Too began_, and Liam hummed along. It had been a while since he heard music, and the sound of it filled him with joy. His foot tapped and a goofy grin splayed on his lips.

It was the best he had felt in years.

"Maybe I misjudged you pal," started Harry, "What's your name again? Liam something-or-other?"

"Liam Payne," he said, chuckling. Harry outstretched a hand, and Liam shook it firmly with his.

Another thing that hadn't occurred in a long while.

His day was turning out to be full of unexpected social flourishes and triumphs towards a more cordial self-being as he interacted with the group at the table. It was the beginning of a brand new, hot-off-the-press Liam Payne that was conversing and holding steady communications with various people.

But Liam was still…Liam. His replies were still distant and his thinking objective. He still appeared, for the most part, emotionless, compartmentalizing and separating himself from the rest of society. The most he had progressed in complaisant behavior was to simply act amiable. It took him a while to dig up the earlier, college-used predecessor mask of affability and suave that he applied to his counterparts in schooling, but once found, he was able to present himself as any other member of society did.

Despite the fact that most of his friendliness surfaced and materialized from fraudulent mockeries of his inner-self—and little to none of the spirited antics spurred from truly being jovial—it was progress.

And that was more than Liam could say about himself in a long time.

* * *

_Welcome to Mercury Suites_

Liam passed underneath the arch, listening to the hum of the neon sign buzz above him. His shoes clicked against the stone walkway, echoing throughout the spacious hall. He had no idea what time it was (it was not as if he could look out at the sky; he was underwater, after all), but he did know that most everyone else in the city was asleep.

As he staggered up the steps, he paused, looking out to the waters. They danced and jumped across the floor, rippling and distorted as a pair of Benthopelagic fish—a species of which he could not identify—glided by. They were large and gray, with thick bodies and stubbed tails. Their fins were small compared to the rest of them, and their eyes darted about. One of the aquatic creatures; the larger one; slammed its smaller partner into the glass. It recoiled and vibrated from the nudge, trailing off after the aggressor.

Liam jumped at the banging of the noise, afraid at first that the window would shatter and the tons of water would pour in, instantaneously ending his life.

_Fool_, he thought. _A fish doesn't have the power to do that._

He continued his way up the stone steps, heels snapping as he went. He stumbled down the hall in exhaustion until he reached the room 312 B, his new living space. He was lucky that he had both the funds and fortune to find a home in the highest and most ostentatious place in Rapture.

He slipped the keycard in and sloppily flung the door open. There were double brick walls on both sides, with a beautiful fireplace that sat next to the window. It was covered with thick, red curtains and the carpet was soft against the padding of his feet as he kicked off his Brogues. He didn't bother to pull the shading back to see the view; he was left without energy, collapsing on one of the two ravishing sofas in the parlor room. The lids of his eyes shut and he drifted into a deep sleep.

Behind the blinds—behind the powerful and reinforced material of the aperture lay a mesmerizing, jaw-dropping glimpse of the city. In the altitudinous, towering building across from his lay the Artemis Suites, and none were awake except for one. The low-powered light of the room was barely visible in the midst of the ocean, the silhouetted man in the window hardly discernible. And yet if Liam had been looking, he would've easily been able to identify the being; for it was the man that had begun to haunt his thoughts, even in his sleep.

His light snoring filled the room and mixed with the soft sound of flowing water outside his flat to create an unsung tale of harmony, peace, and interwoven accord that would bring solace to any heart.

Even his.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Zayn snapped the blinds closed, and staggered to the dining room table with leaden feet. His legs were like thick, elongated bricks and his hair appeared to be that of a rodent's nest. His eyes were deep in thought; pupils dilated in the dimly lit kitchen area.

He thudded into the seat as he plopped down, oblivious to all around him. His new living space was nice—_very_ nice—but at the time, was not conciliating or calming enough to his shaken and brandished soul. He reached his arm up and ran his fingers over the neck of the lamp that sat in the center of the table. He stroked the opaque surface, his hand gently maneuvering down its side.

His palm reached the bottom, and smoothly transitioned from the light to the extremity of the kitchen furniture. It glided across, nearer and nearer to the edge. The padding of his fingers caressed the rounded end, sliding with fluidity over the sleek border. It eventually slipped, Zayn's arm dangling to the side.

He let it hang as he watched it sway back and forth, fingers twitching only slightly, longing for the polished exterior of the wood. It was dyed and stained a deep amber color, small patches of light tinting and reflecting off its surface.

It was deathly silent, and Zayn's thoughts drifted from his mind and hovered in the ambient silence, suspended and draped in the artificial, recycled air of the city. His head leaned and slumped behind the back of the chair, neck set at an uncomfortable angle.

He gazed at the scattered, splashed patterns of contingent texture that stretched on the ceiling. He wished he could touch the rough surface; wished for the silky skin of his palms to run around the coarse splatters of paint. His arm absentmindedly rose, outstretched and reaching for the unattainable feeling. It wavered in the air, floating from side to side as it moved higher and higher.

Suddenly, the limb dropped, slamming against the table. His nerves fluttered and danced, sending tingling sensations through his veins as he distractedly began to rub his pained arm. His brain soon ignored the aching, returning to his percolating, viscid and sticky cognitive process. The lids of his eyes began to sag, and his lashes brushed against his cheek as he fought to stay awake.

He was exhausted and fatigued from the trip to the aquatic city. He had eaten dinner with five acquaintances (he wasn't sure if he could call them friends yet), and then gotten a tour of the city with Liam. They had traversed along the pathways of the empty marketplace, their footsteps echoing through the halls from their debilitated motions.

He enjoyed spending time with Liam, despite the distance—both physically and mentally—between the two of them. He had always strayed a foot or two out of Zayn's reach, either to his side or from behind. His hands never left his pockets and eye contact hadn't been made, though, Zayn had tried to do so on more than one occasion. Conversation was left at a minimum, and for the most part, he simply nodded in response. What had happened to him? Liam had seemed so open; so friendly, at dinner.

Zayn reached his arm up and flicked the switch on the lamp, and the room went dark. He struggled to ward off sleep, grappling with its reigns of nostalgia.

But what was the point?

If he was going to be love-struck and infatuated with someone, he may as well dream about them. For there was nothing better than a lustful, mind-numbing illusion of sheer bliss that such hallucinations could provide.

Except for… he thought. Except for…

His chest lurched forward and fell, synchronizing with the slow beat of his heart. He cautiously lowered his head and placed it against the soft of his skin, tufts of tangled hair drooping and folding, spreading and covering his forehead. His breathing became consistent and even, body gently heaving as an entirety as he lulled into a deep sleep.

* * *

_"Zayn," Liam laughed, the vibration rumbling throughout his bones. It tingled in his finger tips and permeated through to Zayn, causing every fiber of his being to tremble with desire. As he stared up into his lover's eyes, he brushed away a lock of hair, smiling._

_ Liam's arms enveloped the man's torso below him, a hand placed up against his back. Their breathing was faltering and rough, the warm air tickling the chilled skin of their bare bodies. The two were lost in each other's rich, chiseled features and for a while, their hands simply glided across one another's arms, legs, and chest. Their gaze never broke, never pulled apart._

_ The blankets of the bed were soft beneath their muscly physiques and Zayn's feet dangled over the edge. Liam's hand stopped abruptly in its actions, fingers splayed over his companion's heart._

_ "I can feel your heart beat, Zayn" Liam said softly._

_ "I would imagine you can…" he replied, a bit sarcastically._

_ Liam sighed, and sat up. He moved his body off of the dark-skinned man and crossed his legs, facing away from him. Zayn shifted forwards, bringing his arms around Liam's waist, and their malleable figures soon became entangled._

_ Zayn set his chin on the other man's shoulder, resting his head in the crook of his neck._

_ "What's wrong, Li?" he asked, lovingly._

_ "It's just…" _

_ His words halted, and his body began to fade away. It slowly dematerialized, vanishing into the air as a cloud of dust. It swirled in front of him in ever-changing colors, altered by the beams of light that filtered in through the window. They floated and collected, starting from the body up. It formed one tall, unrecognizable being made of pinks, greens, yellows and blues. _

_ "What were you doing, mate?" Harry's voice asked._

_ "What?" _

_ "With that guy. Liam something-or-other. That was sick, you two. You shouldn't be doing that, it's disgusting."_

_ "I…you were watching?" Zayn replied, crestfallen and diffident._

_ "It's wrong," Harry said, "It's a sin."_

_ "Harry please, don't say that."_

_ "I never knew you were that way."_

_ "Harry, please…" tears welled in Zayn's eyes._

_ "All this time and I never knew."_

_ "Harry…"_

_ "All this time…"_

_ And then he was gone. Harry Styles disappeared as soon as he had come, leaving Zayn sobbing and clawing at his exposed legs. His toes curled and he rocked his naked body, broken and confused. _

_ He could hear the delicate dripping of water, and he began to panic. He glanced to the window with puffy, red eyes, and noticed a tiny crack in its corner._

_ "No…" he whispered._

_ The fault in the material fanned out, branching in several different directions._

_ "Wake up, Zayn," it beckoned, as it sprayed through._

_ "No," he said._

_ "Zayn, wake up," it called._

_ "No!" he screamed, cupping his hands over his ears, and clenching his jaw._

_ "Wake up!" it wailed, bursting and shattering the window. It exploded inwards, washing towards him, throwing him against the wall. His body writhed in pain and the salty water filled his lungs._

* * *

Eleanor tugged the brush through her hair, watching the object carefully in the mirror as she ran her hand along the newly-untangled strands. Her head was tilted to the side, and she hummed and tapped her foot in beat with the _Boogie Man_, which played on the phonograph next to her vanity. The record spun, the stylus scratching over the dark disc as it moved in circles.

Louis strode into the bedroom, fingers twiddling with the last button of his double-breasted jacket. He met eyes with his wife in the mirror, and gave a dazzling smile.

"How do I look?" he asked, making his way to Eleanor across the room.

"You look so handsome," she replied, an angelic smile perched on her lips. "And I?"

"Gorgeous as always, my dear," he answered, pecking her cheek. "Now," he said, "I've got to head out and meet the lads. We're going to head down to the Farmer's Market. It opens today; I'll try and find something good, yeah?"

"Of course," she told him. "Get some wine. And not the cheap stuff."

"Do I ever?" he asked, cheekily.

"No," she smiled.

Louis laughed. "All right, well, I'll see you tonight dear." He gave her a kiss on the lips and stomped out of the room, giddy with excitement.

Eleanor waited until her husband was gone before stepping out of her seat and preparing for her day out. It was the first time in a long while that Louis had let her do anything by herself; the first time she wouldn't be under his supervision and watchful eye.

She skipped around her apartment with joy, giggling and bemused by her own frivolous antics.

* * *

The familiar Welcome Center surrounded Eleanor as she traveled to the Footlight Theater. It was a massive space with a fountain in the middle of the room, water pouring from a statue of Andrew Ryan, with benches and a waiting area for guests. There were several staircases, and the linoleum floor was covered with a black and white, checkered pattern. Her pumps clicked as she walked along, drowned out by the excited chatter of the Rapture newcomers.

As they passed her by, she received waves and smiles, and some even spoke to her. She was a bit taken aback at the friendliness of the unfamiliar families, but returned with actions of amicability, nonetheless. She too, nodded and smiled sweetly, just as Louis had taught her.

Although, these actions weren't forced; weren't pulled and formed out of fear of her abusive husband and the harm he would inflict on her. They were looks of genuine happiness, with an unmoving grin fixated on her lips. Her dress seemed to flow with joy as her hair formed a halo around her mellifluous, delicate features. Things in her life were picking up; Louis was kinder, and she had gained some freedom.

Disregarding the fact that that "freedom" involved catching a simple showing of _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_, she carried on, oozing optimism.

She came to a dark, metal door—which uplifted and allowed her passage—and stepped into a long, cylindrical aisle. It was like that of an aquarium; the material was transparent and admitted eyesight into the waters.

She was still unused to the strange corridors, and took each step cautiously. Aquatic creatures of all shapes and sizes skittered by, some incidentally striking the tube. Each time the noise echoed through the walkway Eleanor flinched, paused, and trembled as she glanced about. It took her what seemed like ages to reach the end, but she was greeted with festive music and boisterous conversations from those around her as another door slid open.

The lights bounced off the walls, moving in rhythm with the accompanied music of the Kashmir. She crossed the lavish room and hall of dining once more, this time heading for the entrance of the Footlight Theater. She showed the doorman her admittance ticket, and she was allowed access.

Her jaw dropped as her mind was taken to an entirely new level of elegance. The room contained stage lights and many rows of seating, the floor coated in soft, velvet carpeting. There were standing areas off to the sides for the less-fortunate, and in the balconies above, as well. The stage glistened in the vivid, bright beams of light, reflecting off of the wooden surface. It was covered in dark, crimson curtains that were made of the most beautiful material Eleanor had seen in her life.

Along with the graceful, ardent and grandiloquent styles of the theater, the carefree, yet regal atmosphere diffused with the moods of its patrons to form a blanket of appeased guests. Upon finding her seat in the first row, Eleanor was welcomed by a blonde-haired, blue-eyed and handsome man.

"Hello Niall," she replied, returning his smile.

"Well aren't we all dolled up for the day?" he asked, humorously.

"I suppose so," she answered shyly. "Did Mr. Ryan give you another day off to catch the show?"

"I wish I had the pleasure," he joked. Mr. Ryan poked his head around the large frame of Niall, and gave a small wave.

"Hello, darling, it's nice to meet you." He outstretched a hand, and she welcomed the embrace. "What might your name be?"

"I'm Eleanor, sir. Eleanor Tomlinson."

"Ah, no need for formal names!" he bellowed, chuckling to himself. "Call me Andrew, I insist! And make sure to enjoy the show, will you? Experience all that Rapture has to offer!"

She nodded, giggling to herself.

"I will, sir—Andrew." He winked and returned his attention to the stage.

"Sorry about that," Niall whispered, "he can be a bit of a nut-job."

"All's well, no need to apologize," she grinned.

It was evident to Andrew as the show passed on that the two were getting along well, and so he let them be. He pretended to ignore their hushed remarks and conversations throughout, laughing inwardly at their foolish banter. He thought of pressing their faces together a few times himself, just to end the flirtatious dance of words.

There were subtle compliments strewn about in every sentence spoken, polished over with provocative and teasing tones.

"We will do something like this again, yeah?" Niall questioned, eyebrows lifted.

"I think we can have something arranged," Eleanor replied. "Louis is always looking for new friends."

Niall's face fell a little at that. "All right, great. My room's over in the Olympic Suites if you ever want to catch up. Room 203."

"Perfect," she said, curling her fingers around her purse. "I've got to be heading back now." She shook both Niall's and Andrew's hands. "And once again, nice to meet you."

She strutted off down the aisle, dress flowing with every step.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Louis strode into the Farmer's Market, brushing past a crowd of people in his path. He smiled and apologized several times, eyeing the steaks and other goods they carried as they walked along. He quickly scanned the gorgeous space—its walkways were covered in cobblestone and there was a large, grassy area for relaxation—and found the men he was to meet with. He had planned a day at the marketplace of Rapture for the group of new arrivals (all by himself, of course, arranging events and get-togethers was his forte), and was delighted to see the pair had showed up.

"Lads!" he greeted them. "So sorry to have kept you waiting."

"It's no problem," Zayn replied, shaking his hand. "We haven't been here but a few minutes."

"Someone looks excited," Harry said, grinning.

"I am! This place is great, you know," Louis exclaimed, beaming with adoration. "Rapture is so…perfect. A true Utopia. Great people, great views, and God, it has great food."

"Isn't that the truth," Harry agreed, chuckling.

"Speaking of food, I'm starving. You lads want to take a look around and see what these places have got?" Zayn asked.

"Definitely."

Harry and Louis had both replied at the same time, and shot each other cheeky grins. It was a small, yet prevalent gesture of esteem and approval that brought veneration to their eyes. A flare of energy sparked between their gazes, igniting an ember of coalition within the two.

Amidst the poignant air Zayn stood, watching as a new friendship was silently forged.

"Let's get going, shall we?" he interrupted, clapping his hands against the men's backs. Harry and Louis nodded, beginning to move through the tightly packed, condensed clusters of civilians that dotted the area. It was difficult to maneuver around the thick patches, and it took the trio a while to reach their destinations. They traveled from _Paddon Meats_ to _Milton's Fine Quality Cheese_, and then to _First Class Fruit, Artisan Distilled Water_, the _Worley Winery_ and, finally, to the _Central Square Bistro_.

"I'm beat," Harry said, sinking into the booth of the restaurant. It was another high-class, luxury establishment for Rapture's wealthy. Its booths were comfortable and lush, with soft padding and a sturdy back. There was a bar in the opposite half of the building, fractured conversations and bits of dialogue seeping through the walls.

"How long has it been?" Zayn asked, absentmindedly searching for a clock.

"Four hours," Louis replied, sliding his watch back under his cuff link. "Crazy to think we've been out that long, the wife better be happy…"

"Where is, er…Elouise? Is that her name?"

"Her name is Eleanor," Louis chuckled. "She's off seeing some musical, or play, or whatever down at the Footlight."

"Oh," Harry said.

"Liam!" Zayn shouted, suddenly. He waved a hand in the air at the lone man—who glanced around in confusion—motioning for him to head over. Liam groaned softly, careful not to let the uneasiness he felt slip in his features.

"Hello," he said when he reached the booth. "Did you need something?"

"Uh, well, I wanted to know what you were doing here alone," Zayn lied.

"It's not as though I have anyone else to be here with," Liam stated plainly. He wasn't looking for pity or solace from any of them; to him it was just a clear and simple fact that he lived in solitude.

But he received the sympathetic benevolence of the men, regardless.

"Sit down with us, then," Zayn offered. "You lads don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Harry said.

"Drinking alone is no fun," Louis added, smiling.

"I'd rather not," Liam answered, truthfully.

"Oh come on," the three beckoned, words booming throughout the restaurant. "Just one drink."

"I only need to stay for one?" Liam asked.

"One!" Harry echoed, ignoring Liam's discomfort.

"Well, if you insist…"

Zayn patted the open space next to him, a friendly, inviting smile on his face. Liam sat down reluctantly, attempting to stay as far away as possible on the small platform.

"Do you ever take that thing off?" Harry asked, referring to Liam's lab coat. It draped down and around him, folded neatly under his bum.

"Not usually," Liam answered.

"You're very…" Louis started, gesturing with his hands. "How do I say it? Direct?"

"I find it easier to be straightforward," Liam replied, slightly galled. "I'm getting my drink, now."

He stood, lightly stepping out of the booth and headed towards the bar. He could have flagged down a waitress, but he was becoming irritated with the pestering, irrelevant questions thrown at him by the men he somehow ended up sitting next to. He ordered an Arcadia Merlot, an already-popular alcoholic beverage in the depths of the city. The bartender poured it in the glass, after dashing several different liquids and mixing them together, with great efficiency. He slid the drink across the bar stool, a few droplets falling against the polished wood. He swiped a rag across the dirtied surface, and returned to his work.

Liam huffed, and started back to the three strangers. He held the drink in hand, sipping as his feet tapped the floor. He was in the middle of a long, torturous swig of the fluid—his head was tilted back as his lips placed around the cold material—and as a result, failed to see the leg of table (which seemed to be sticking out much too far, really) that obstructed his path. His shoe caught on the long, thin rod, and he went tumbling downwards.

His knee slammed against the hardwood floor and his ankle twisted at an agonizing, painful angle. The glass he held slipped from his grip and crashed against the ground, shattering in a high-pitched, ear-splitting dissonance that sounded through the room.

"Fuck!" Liam whispered, reaching for his pained limb.

"Liam!" Zayn cried, rushing to his side. "Are you all right?" he asked, worriedly.

"I'm nearly positive I tore something in my tarsus…" he stated, calmly.

"Here, let me help you up…"

"No, I've got it, I'm fine," he lied, clutching the nearest table in support. He attempted to stand with his left leg first, and was fine. Upon placing his right ankle against the floor, though, he wobbled and a small yelp escaped his lips.

"You're not fine," Zayn told him, wrapping an arm around his neck. "Let's get you back home and put some ice on that."

"I'm not comfortable with this."

"I don't care what you're comfortable with, Liam. You and I both know you can't get back to your flat alone."

Liam knew that there was no way he could possibly get out of the situation. Not only had Zayn seemed determined, but he had learned enough in medical school—despite his majoring in biology—to know that a tear in the tarsal joints could lead to severe injury, if not treated properly. He unwillingly accepted the help of the sometimes-beleaguering, yet always-placating olive skinned man as he staggered home. He cursed under his breath, flustered and perplexed by the incessant, jabbing thoughts in his brain and the throbbing, arduous pains in his ankle.

* * *

"There," Zayn said, helping Liam to sit down. "Do you have any ice in the fridge?"

"No," Liam cringed.

"Wait here, then," Zayn told him, swiping the key off the kitchen table. "Be back as soon as possible."

Liam sighed, and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He hated that he needed to rely on someone else; needed somebody to take care of him. He felt helpless and weak, broken and worthless. It would be weeks before he could walk on his own (at least without pain), and there was no way that he could look, let alone find, a job before they were all taken. And to top all of the taxing, stressful mental and physical pressures, there was Zayn.

The man only added to the turmoil and inner-chaos that Liam now battled with. Feelings of strange, deviating origin surfaced, spreading about his stomach in their bizarre and eccentric ways. They fluttered and jumped, uncontrolled and careening in their promenades of…well, Liam didn't know.

He had never experienced such a thing before.

He was unsure of what he was going through, and it bothered him. He seldom felt anything, and an emotion of this magnitude was overwhelming. His heart ached, his mind was disorganized, and his leg throbbed all at once. It left with him with a bitter-sweet, fiery and fuming trail of tears that painted his face.

Which, in the end, simply made him angrier.

For he had vowed ever since that day never to cry again. Never was he to feel so lamented and dismal; so alone, so afraid.

Yet there he sat, whimpering as he fought the uncontrollable, obstinate wails of sorrow that caused anguish with every new tear.

* * *

Zayn burst through the Bistro, frantically darting to the booth. Louis and Harry still sat, chatting, laughing and immersed in their conversation, several empty glasses strewn about the table. Zayn rushed to the seating arrangement to pick up the bags he had left behind when taking Liam to his suite.

"How's he doing, mate?" Harry asked, pausing in his communications with Louis.

"I got him up to his room, but I need to get him some ice, and get this meat cooled before it goes bad…"

"Need any help?" Louis offered.

Zayn paused. He could use the help; he wouldn't have to hurry from place to place, exhausting himself, and it would prevent further collapse from fatigue. If he was being honest, though, he really did not want the pair of gentlemen to cut into his alone time with Liam.

It was selfish, irresponsible, and stupid, but he tucked the thought away to a crevice of his mind.

"No, I've got it lads," he said, faking a smile. "You two enjoy the day out."

He spun on his heel and moved as hastily as his baggage allowed out the restaurant, headed straight for Liam. It pained him to know that the man he knew was alone and hurting.

_I'm not comfortable with this._

The words echoed and played over and over again in his head, nearly driving him to insanity. He gazed back at his earlier actions, searching and doubting himself, knowing that he must have made some sort of mistake in his mannerisms. He carded over the past day and a half, speculating upon the events that had unfolded. He had tried to be poised and sophisticated, all the while incorporating a dash of humor and a perky demeanor.

The only question was: had it worked?

He became self-conscious, insecure, uncomfortable. Liam was a brilliant man; a genius. Zayn was sure that he had undoubtedly seen through his little act of amiability, and he hated knowing that his flirting and dalliance had not gone unseen. While questioning whether or not he should engage in such coquetry, or recede from the risky interactions, the sign for the _Olympic Suites _came into view. It buzzed and hummed in conjunction with his flitting heart beats, casting a dim glow against the whites of his eyes.

The grocery bags sagged in his arms as he moved deliberately up the steps and down the hall. He arrived at room _312 B_, slid the key in, and kicked open the door; somehow managing not to drop a single item in his possession.

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry it took so long, I—"

Zayn froze.

Liam stared up at him with his soft brown eyes, wide and rimmed with red. His wet face glittered under parlor room's lights, cheeks rosy from where he had evidently buried them in his hands. His coat was wadded into a ball and tossed on the floor, threaded and fortified with dark, moist stains. There had been no shirt under the coat, Zayn could see that now.

Now he dropped the sacks of food.

He stared at the bare, muscular chest, acknowledging the caramel-colored skin. His pectorals were nicely developed; solid, yet smooth. His eyes traveled down the cut, divinely crafted features to a sinewy, tight abdomen where an inviting six-pack was visible. He noticed a light, hardly discernible trace of hair that led into unseen, sensualistic parts of pleasure at which he lusted after. Mind hazed with passion and desire for the sandy-haired man, Zayn took a trembling step forward.

"Don't," Liam said, the silence cracking and crumbling beneath his words. He melted the avidity in the air, the one simple word flowing through in a now-clear route to Zayn's mind. It struck his thoughts in a profound and deep way that somehow shocked him back to reality.

"I—"

"Don't come a step closer."

Liam's voice shook and his lip quivered, eyes glazed with tears threatening to spill over once more. Zayn never thought he would see the resilient man so weak, so vulnerable.

He ignored the broken but determined words and moved further towards the troubled man.

Liam jumped from his seat, practically stumbling to the floor in the process in attempts to escape the raven-haired lad. It was to no avail of course; Zayn was much faster and far more incisive at the moment, despite his dubitable, foggy brain. He grabbed Liam by the arm—who desperately struggled to get away—before turning him slowly around.

Their eyes locked and their bodies went motionless. It was quiet all around, except for the trickling, warm breaths of the distraught men. At such closeness Zayn could see Liam's nostrils moving slightly as he inhaled the sultry air. Liam stared back, still delicate and feeble, melting Zayn's heart.

Liam drifted closer, and the olive-skinned man acted upon the whisper of hope within.

Their heads leaned and their lips, which were moist from the heated indignation, just about touched. They were not more than an inch apart, and the moment was so intimate that for several minutes, their bodies were fixated in such a position. Mouths were open and panting, the warm air pervading across the miniscule distance and to the other's lungs.

Finally, as if some celestial, beatific being had urged him to go on, Zayn bridged the gap between the two. Both were careful and cautious as their lips adjoined; reluctant, at first, to fall wholeheartedly into the kiss.

Everything poured from one man to the next. The worries, the fears, the doubts; it all seemed to flow thoroughly and holistically through the affectionate embrace. It was cathartic, purging, eye-opening, and their souls calmed in the fleeting moment.

It was once again silent in the room, and the pair basked in the ethereal shroud of passion.

Not desire, not lust; a true, undying and unfathomable passion.


	6. Chapter 5

Liam's lips lingered in a long-lasting moment of hesitancy, before he slowly pulled away from the man so near to him. His mouth was warm, tongue still tasting the salty vehemence of his actions. In that perfect crack of seemingly-frozen time, his mind had undergone a quick transition from chaos and disorder to peace and halcyon.

It was back to chaos.

Without the sweet bliss of the olive-skinned man's lips, Liam returned to the pounding discord that hammered throughout his mind. It rang in his thoughts as a shattering reminder of his failure to stay isolated, bringing with it broken reasoning.

_Fool. _

His knees trembled.

_Idiot._

His legs began to sink.

_Simpleton._

His body dropped to the floor.

Arms hung beside him, swaying and shuddering in cadency as Zayn kneeled to the ground.

Zayn, the man who had ruined everything, the cause of all his problems. The reason his ankle throbbed, the reason his mental well-being suffered. He had come into Liam's life and crushed his walls of seclusion, and he could do nothing now but watch them fall. Piece by piece he felt them torn away; flung to the pits of amour where they vanished under Zayn's spell.

His emotions were malleable, and they danced to the tune of enticement that the raven-haired man sung. Zayn, who was at eye-level with the decrepit, spindly-spent scientist, wrapped his arms tightly around the figure. Liam trembled under his touch, but soon felt his affections twist and turn in the sweet melody of his breath.

Each warm, drawn-out burst of air that escaped his lips landed directly on Liam's back, and the pleasant aroma of his cologne diffused with the ventilated room. The pain in his leg slowly faded into nothingness as his mind became preoccupied with the hands that stroked his hair. Tears welled and escaped his eyes, and he buried his face in the crook of Zayn's neck.

"It's okay," he whispered. "It's all right."

But all Liam could do was muffle a sob.

With each cry of sorrow, he could feel the gut-wrenching ache in his stomach gradually lose its hold over him. Water dotted Zayn's suit, a patch of the substance leaving a dark spot where Liam had rested. His head lifted away from the silky, comforting material and stared into the Bradford Native's eyes.

They instinctively—out of some congenital chart of intimacy—pressed their foreheads together, gently. Liam's eyes closed, and he was able to muster up enough resolve to speak.

"What is this?" he breathed, questioning the unfamiliar burning he felt inside.

"I've no idea," Zayn whispered back. "Do you like it?" he asked, quietly.

"I…" his voice trailed off, a mere susurration of his thoughts.

For once in his life Liam let his emotions overtake him. Without thought, without inquisition, he allowed his body to relax in the hold of another, and he enjoyed it. Never did he think a day would come where his half-naked self would rest against the floor, enveloped in strong, built arms with his heart at ease. The passionate sensations spoke to him a longing for the instant to last forever, but even through his tattered thoughts, Liam knew the truth.

Nothing lasted forever.

That didn't stop him, though, from risking everything he had built over half of his lifetime with a few, simple words.

"I like it," he answered.

"I do, too," Zayn replied, earnestly.

Their lips connected a second time, and Liam noted that it felt so much greater; so much more _right_, than the first. Beyond his rational cognitive process something urged him to release all barriers of separation, and he willingly complied. He melted into the powerful body that was Zayn, nestled against his chest in a cessation and peace unlike any he had felt before.

"I've never…" Liam started, failing to finish his sentence.

Zayn was silent.

"I've never let anyone in before…" he said, diffidently. It was so low, said with such soft conviction that Zayn could barely hear the small words.

"It's okay."

"I can't do it, Zayn."

"It's okay, Liam."

"I can't do it…"

"Liam, it's going to be okay."

"I…I can't…" he said, weakly.

"I'll never hurt you, I promise."

"You can't promise that…"

"Yes I can, trust me."

"Why?"

"Because I know," Zayn reassured him.

"How?"

"I just know, Liam."

He fought the urge to believe the deceiving words as his mind relapsed into past memories.

* * *

Liam sat on the edge of the worn bed, swirling his feet in small circles in the air. The light filtered in through the blinds and the orange glow of the sun projected against the chipped walls. He could see the peeling paint, the growing stains of mold in the corners.

The floor was shabby and torn, and the wooden boards splintered at the edges. His feet were dirty and scuffed, the dark of asphalt reaching up past his heels and to his ankles. His toes—which should have been soft as any other child—were calloused and rough, from roaming the streets barefoot.

He glanced across the floor; eyes trailing to an almost-empty trash can placed under the window pane. Its knitted aluminum covered the circumference in tiny nets, its bottom was rusted, and in it laid a single object. The contour of the measly, fragile rectangular object was split and tearing. The thin glass coating meant to protect the photo beneath it was cracked and fragmented, distorting the image encased within.

But broken glass was no longer needed to contort the falsified life he once lived; his parents had done a well enough job of that. And now there he was, alone and hopeless in a cruel and unforgiving world. His eyes traced the familiar outlines of the family he once had, the place he once called home.

A single, long-lost hope and a single, dead dream.

_***** December 1st, 1947, Liam's Apartment *****_

"Can't you skip work today?"

"No, Zayn, you know how important this job is. You have…you have no idea what we're working on. It's revolutionary."

"Liam, why do you always have to be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Every time we take one step forward, I feel like we move two steps back. We've barely made any progress in the past year and you always keep things from me."

"Then why are we still doing this?" Liam spat. "If you're not happy with this—with us—then why don't you just get out?" He said coldly, eyes full of hurt.

"Because I love you."

"No you don't. Love is just a string of chemical impulses."

"That's ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous," he countered, slamming the door behind him.

Zayn sighed, cursing himself for opening his mouth. He knew that Liam was apprehensive toward their relationship; he always had been. They had moved in together after Liam had torn something in his ankle, for there was no one to take care of the unstable man except Zayn himself. But he hadn't minded. He felt something deep for Liam; something he knew would never leave him.

And after a year, it hadn't.

He was still unsure of what to call…whatever it was the two had. Was it dating? Were they partners? Boyfriends?

The pair had never discussed it before. Whenever a topic even remotely close was brought up, Liam's walls sky-rocketed and spiraled around him, closing him off from the rest of the world; even Zayn. It was a sad thing, how he tried so hard to have his love reciprocated. He lived for the moments—though beyond rare—when Liam opened up to him. He cared so much about the younger man that it hurt inside, and the ache he often felt began to blossom once more.

But somehow, as if some ambrosial, angelic being whispered it in his ear, he knew that Liam loved him. That deep, deep down inside lie a connection so resonant, so consummate, there was no possible way of denying its existence.

"If only he would say it back…" Zayn mumbled aloud, striking a flame to a cigarette. He hoped the intoxicating fumes would add a little calm to his jumbled life, some sort of order.

He slowly sank into the leather sofa, relaxing into the soft cushioning. He gazed out the window, watching the rippling waters play across its surface. He smiled for no particular reason; it was just a simple, undefined period of peace for him, despite the unruly problems he faced.

Jobs for Zayn had come and gone, usually ending in getting fired, due to his lack of submission. Though Liam was an even bigger pain in the ass when it came to taking orders, his scientific, intellectual genius kept him afloat as one of the most respected members of Rapture society. People from all around recognized him from posters they had seen plastered across walls of thrift stores and alleyways, managing to pinpoint him in even the largest of crowds.

Surprisingly, Liam had been able to handle it all quite well, hiding his irritation with ease. After all, he was a master of concealing such, as he called them, "cumbersome feelings".

_He's always had a way with words,_ Zayn thought. He chuckled at the strange, cerebral speech patterns of the one he loved. It was always a laugh to speculate upon the conversations Liam engaged in with unknown civilians, who were never less than shocked with the quaint tones he set.

He began to reminisce on all of the comical, humorous, and even sentimental times the two shared. With Liam receiving such a large income from his line of work, dinners were often eaten at the _Kashmir_, or the Bistro, when it was open. The sandy-haired man always had something witty to say about the fumbling waiters and waitresses and, infrequently, would conduct himself as romantically as possible in the public eye. It was those times that Zayn treasured the most: when Liam just let himself go, and went with what he was feeling.

But those instances were less and less forthcoming, as of late.

Zayn shook the disheartening thoughts from his mind in attempts to remain optimistic. He was sure things would work themselves out; they always did.

At least, he hoped they would.

* * *

I apologize for such a long wait! Here is chapter 5, I hope everyone that reads enjoys. Reviews are motivating and feedback is always welcome, no matter how harsh.

Thank you again for reading!


	7. Chapter 6

_ *** December 1st, 1947, Louis and Eleanor's Apartment ***_

"Harry," Louis breathed, "It's all right, she won't be back for some time…"

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm positive," Louis chuckled between kisses. He took hold of the man, unfastening the buttons of his shirt sloppily. His hands were shaky, lust-filled adrenaline pulsing through every vein in his body. He tore the piece of clothing off from Harry, tossing it on the bed and waiting for him to return the gesture.

The curly haired lad (he had not gotten his hair cut the entire year, allowing it to grow to unruly, unkempt lengths) took control of the thin, blue-eyed male in front of him. He ripped the materials from his slender figure piece by piece, stripping him of the fabrics completely.

"Aren't you going to take this tie off?" Louis questioned.

"I like it," Harry responded, dropping his pants to the floor. He grinned and pushed his partner against the foot of the bed, bending him backwards. He continued the motion until Louis' back had touched the soft, silky comforter and pressed their bodies together.

The warm, toned frame set flame to an even deeper desire for Harry than Louis could have ever imagined, and he felt the burning catch in his stomach. It clenched and blazed within him, a tingling sensation racing throughout every inch of his body. His fingers twitched as they slid up the side of Harry's face, caressing his jawline. With his right hand he gently latched on to the disheveled curls, and with his left, he pulled him further downwards.

Harry fell on top of him now, but Louis didn't mind. As he stared into the leafy green eyes, he realized what love felt like. It wasn't the pathetic, forced fling he had with his bitch-of-a-wife Eleanor. It was there and now with Harry atop him, body raging in stimulation, their mouths connected.

Harry felt a slippery tongue slide across his bottom lip, and access was immediately granted. As saliva alternated between one mouth and the next, tongues danced across teeth and ventured into uncharted territory. Passion of intoxicating, concentrated levels pierced their minds as two became one, and bodies were no longer discernible in the mess of limbs.

"Jesus Lou, I never knew you were so big," Harry smirked, eyeing the throbbing erection below his own. Louis' cheeks flushed, but he simply batted his lashes in the dim light.

"There's a whole lot you don't know, Styles," he said.

"Mmm, then why don't you show me…" his voice trailed off and he chuckled, grabbing Louis by the measly tie he wore. He tugged at the wrinkled thing, pulling the lithe man up with it. Their mouths collided once more, hands roaming each other's bodies as they stood. Louis' hands traveled up, encircling Harry's neck and to his ear, then down his chest and across his back. The soft padding of his fingers met the smooth cheeks of his partner's bum, and he smiled and grabbed at the delicate flesh. He squeezed down hard, earning a whimper and whine of approval from the other man.

Harry, though, took his arms in a different direction. They glided to Louis' head, becoming entangled within the luscious brown locks of the blue-eyed man as he nipped at his ear lobes.

"Oh!" he piped, feeling something slap against his bum. "Lou," he muttered, voice coated in lust. "You're such a naughty boy…" He moved his lips from the man's ear to his neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin.

"Wait," Louis said, gasping. "Oh…Harry, no…" he moaned. "Wait…stop…"

"Why, Boo Bear?" Harry panted.

"Eleanor…" he mumbled.

"But Lou…" Harry muttered, before returning to pleasure his lover once more.

"Oh, God...Harry, please…" Louis stuttered.

But the ecstasy that had been lapping at his feet was too much to ignore now. Like a powerful, unstoppable wave of the ocean it crashed over him, and the passion-charged water rippled over his body.

"Fuck it," he whispered, taking Harry by the shoulders and guiding him to the edge of the room. Louis slammed him against the wall, pinning his arms above his head. His hot tongue immediately traveled to Harry's neck, and he swirled it against the skin as he moved further down. A string of saliva was left in its wake, drying quickly on the burning flesh with help of the sultry air that engulfed the two.

Louis' mouth soon traced small circles around Harry's nipple as his left hand fondled the other. He flicked them—both with his tongue and finger—sending the curly haired man into peaks of pleasure. His member throbbed and twitched, and he groaned for Louis to move quicker. Each low, staggering moan of delight brought Louis closer and closer to Harry's pulsating cock and a grin perched his lips when finally, _finally_, he reached it.

Louis, of course, teased his partner before seizing the monstrous thing in his mouth. He placed a hand over its circumference, wrapping his fingers slowly around it. He gave a single, drawn-out stroke and listened for the shaky exhalation of breath from above. Pleased with the reaction, Louis smiled, before continuing.

He pressed his soft, wet lips against the shaft, licking it up and down. From base to tip it was slowly covered in Louis' warm saliva, eliciting a deep groan of approval from Harry.

"Come on," he pleaded, "Quit teasing."

"Don't rush me, Styles…" Louis replied, determined to prolong the interaction as much as possible. That was one thing Harry had forgotten amidst the tangled mess of limbs and sweat.

Louis Tomlinson didn't take orders.

Refusing to give in to the man's desires entirely, Louis took only the head of his thick arousal between his lips. His tongue spun round and round the tip, and Harry gripped his feathered hair tightly. He tugged tentatively, protesting in silence at Louis' deliberate behavior. Louis responded by grabbing with his hands at Harry's bum once more; partly to keep his body steady, and partly because he loved the way it felt.

He hated being rushed, but he knew that if he didn't hurry up, their time together would be over. He took as much of the cock in his mouth as he could, cheeks hollowing. He nearly choked once he reached the base—Harry was not small by any means—but forced the gag back to the pit of his stomach.

"Fuck!" Harry yelped, lids half shut. His lashes fluttered as his head thudded against the wall, and whispers of incoherent words escaped him.

Though they were nonsensical, random pieces of broken sentences entwined into one long string of babbling, Louis somehow understood their meaning. He established a stable, fixed rhythm of sucking; bobbing his head up and down while squeezing, pulling and slapping at Harry's ass. Louis' nails dug into the delicate and smooth skin, tearing away at the desire to pump his own erection. Unable to carry on without satisfying his own needs, he settled for keeping one hand on Harry's left bum cheek, the other stroking his member.

From the instant his fingers touched at his cock and onwards, Louis became overwhelmed under the bundle of sensuous euphoria that swallowed him. Harry's cologne lingered in his nostrils, the taste of him spread across his tongue, and the two could not be any closer.

Well, they _could_ be closer, but neither of them was willing to go that far.

Were they?

"Harry," Louis panted, pulling his mouth away. "I want you inside of me," he breathed.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I thought we decided we were going to wait."

"I can't wait any longer, Harry. I need you. Now."

Harry grinned sheepishly, dragging Louis up to his mouth. He kissed the man deeply, and all senses of apprehension faded away in the loving embrace.

"Louis—"

"I'm ho-o-ome," a voice called. The sound of the sweet, shrill voice struck terror into the pair's eyes, and they exchanged glances of sheer alarm.

Their worst nightmares had come true, and their world was about to come tumbling down.

"Shit!" Louis whispered. "Hide!"

Panicking, Harry scooped up his things that were strewn about the floor, and hurried into the bathroom. Louis followed suit, shutting the door as quietly as possible and clicking the lock.

"What—"

"Shhh," Louis replied, holding a finger to his lips. He pointed to the empty tub, making a swiping gesture with his arm. Somehow, amidst the confusion and disorient, Harry understood the strange gesticulations. With the ball of clothes in his hand, he stepped lightly into the bathtub, wincing at the small creak it made. He shrunk as slowly as he could, bringing his knees up to his chest, and pulled the curtain across hesitantly.

"Louis?" Eleanor called. "Louis, where are you?"

"I'm in the bathroom, darling," he answered. "I'll uh…I'll be out in a minute."

"Well hurry up, will you? I need to use it, myself."

Louis gulped anxiously, glancing to where Harry lie in hiding. He swiftly threw on his clothes, ignoring the incessant wrinkles that would often make him cringe. He straightened his tie, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

"How was your day?" he asked Eleanor, who was now standing in front of him.

"It was all right" she responded, kissing Louis on the cheek. "Now get out of the way, you oaf."

She playfully pushed passed him, and closed the door with ease. Louis' jaw tensed as he waited for a blood-curdling scream that would bring the end to all of his trysts. He prayed to a God he wasn't sure he believed in, hoping that the silent words would bubble up past the Heavens and into the ears of the Lord.

He waited, and he waited. What felt like hours of agonizing and painful anticipation was really only minutes, but even through that short amount of time, he felt as though he was going insane.

Or something close to it, anyways.

Finally, the whooshing sound of the toilet within broke the heavy silence, and he realized they had not been caught. His affair—which was much better and far more loving than his actual marriage—would live another day.

How long had the two been sneaking around?

_Five months, at least,_ Louis thought. _Yes, our anniversary is July 1st._

When was his and Eleanor's anniversary?

He couldn't remember.

He was tired of keeping it all in, tired of holding his feelings back. In public, he and Harry could barely touch. No hugs, no hand holding, no kissing; those rules had been established soon after they had nearly been caught snogging each other in a back alley behind one of the many bars in Rapture. Even worse, though, was the way that Harry flirted so openly with every damned female he came across. The man was a walking whore-magnet, Louis would swear upon it.

Always the hand on the shoulder, the high-pitched giggle of seduction.

Always the patronizing reminder that Harry Styles could never truly be his.

Louis felt a flush of anger spread across his cheeks, and it wasn't long before imaginable, invisible steam was spewing from his ears. Resentment flared in his nostrils and the fury of it all was too much for him; pushing his hatred over the edge. So when the door opened, and Eleanor stepped out, it was easy for his fist to collide with her delicate face.

A scream rang from her fragile body as she dropped to the floor. It fell so easily, so effortlessly, and a sickening thud reverberated throughout the room.

The attack was unexpected and swift, sending her mind reeling. Eleanor was used to the abuse, and she carried the burden of the scars and the bruises with her every day that passed by. She expected the beatings regularly, and normally, she could tolerate them.

But usually, she at least had a reason why.

"Louis," she cried, "Please, don't do this," she pleaded. "What have I done?"

"You _stupid_ bimbo! What haven't you done?" he roared, standing above her with his hand clenched. "You should be thankful all I did was hit you! And only once! Thankful, you should be thankful!"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, raising her arms to cover her face. Her legs were bent at uncomfortable angles and her body trembled in fear. A stream of blood flowed from her nose, and the metallic taste dripped on her tongue. "Please…" she whispered. "Please, Louis. Please…"

Salty tears of despair fell and mixed with the pain of fresh, neoteric blood that trailed along Eleanor's face. A purple, darkened spot already had begun to form; the pain that she felt was immense. Her tailbone ached from the crash to the floor, and a few of her fingernails snapped in the process. The broken pieces of acrylics were scattered about her, forming a semi-circle that shone in the lighting.

Louis, noticing the shattered nails and realizing what he had done, quickly felt remorse. The tremors of animosity he had experienced so short a time before receded him, leaving a faltering man in its wake.

"Oh, God, El," he said, knees shaking. "I've done it again…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

She gazed up at him, sniffling and wiping away at the red of her upper lip.

"It's okay, Lou. I know you didn't mean it."

"It's not El, it's not," he said, crying.

But Eleanor was used to the instability of her partner, and thus knew how to react.

"Louis, it's all right, truly. I'll just; I'll go down to the infirmary and tell them I tripped. That I tripped and hit the kitchen counter. Okay? That will work. They'll fix me up and I'll be fine. Fine!" she said, faking a smile as best she could. Louis nodded, and watched as his wife rushed out of the room.

Louis buried his face in his hands, wavering in both body and mind. As he began to sink to the floor, Harry appeared. Catching him by the waist, he allowed for the feather-haired man to collapse in his arms. Now fully clothed and out of hiding, Harry consoled him the best he could. His hands rubbed small circles against Louis' back, comforting his shaken thoughts.

"I didn't mean to do it," Louis cried. "I didn't mean to," he said.

"I know," Harry told him.

"Honest to God, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it…"

"Shhh, Louis, it's all right."

"I didn't…" he sniffled. "I didn't mean it…"

"It's okay, Eleanor will forgive you."

"I just want to be together, that's all," Louis said. "Just you and me, Harry. I love you, you know. I love you so much and I hate that she keeps us apart. I wish she didn't Harry, I love you. I didn't mean to hit her, I was just so upset. I just want it to be us, Harry, not me and her. Just us, together. Forever."

"I know, Louis. I want it to be us, too. I love you with all my heart."

"Then why do you do it, Harry? Why do you flirt with so many women if you love me?" Louis asked, words muffled in Harry's chest.

"It's just an act, Lou, I promise. I love you. I love _you_, Boo Bear."

A pause.

"Will we get through this?"

"We'll get through this," Harry answered. "But listen, its best I get going, before she gets back."

Harry stood, gently guiding Louis to rest on the edge of his bed. He set the shivering body down on the soft comforter and made his way to the apartment's entrance.

"Harry," he heard Louis call, and he halted. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he answered, stepping out of the flat.

"Christ," Harry mumbled to himself, running a hand through his hair. Upon reaching the end of the hall, he turned back, facing the direction of the home he had just left.

"Louis…" he said, shaking his head.

* * *

I realize that a one year time skip is a long time, but it was necessary to keep the plot moving forward. I'll do my best to make sure that the story makes sense, despite the time gap! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review and send me some feedback!

I just went back to reread over some chapters and the noticed the line breaks weren't there. I apologize for any confusion, but they should be there now! Again, sorry! :(


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